As if by God’s finger points or
Like air-born seeds of cottonwood,
We settle down on the same street
As beginners or semi-ones, just
Brief greetings doable most of times
Of our hectic days.
Children’s affairs, monetary demands,
And so forth, plunge us into the sea of
Arduous games, forcing to be
Athletes of our lives.
Then the devil sneaks in, poking our
Heart-monitor, a no more stranger.
We seek the better place, like insects
With the broken antenna.
In realization, we straighten our back,
Tend the old garden.
We let the wind blow its course.
©Byung A. Fallgren